Too Good To Be Beaten

For many years, I was intent on hurting myself. I couldn't figure out why my attempts to feel like everyone else hadn't been working, and it made me furious with myself. Why did I still feel like people could look right through me and see the cancerous growths of abnormality caused by losses and abuse? Why did I have to think about things like remembering to smile and to keep looking up? (When I was about 14, I was walking down the street on my way home from school. It was a sunny day and felt good inside. The block was very long and it usually took me about 15 minutes to walk it. That day, something amazing happened, the glare from the sun had caused me to look up. At that moment, it dawned on me that in all the years I had been walking down this block, I never looked up. I never saw the row of trees leading me home - only single trees as they passed me by. I never saw the winding concrete path - only one slab of concrete pavement at a time. And so, I forced myself to look up and straight ahead, to be more normal.) My favorite weapon against myself was men. Even despite the heartache and violence I saw my mother live through, there was a point in my life in which I didn't believe I was worth anything, and I certainly wasn't too good to be beaten.

While at an accounting firm, I met a man who was different than those surrounding him. He was aloof and tall and seemed to be free of caring about what the world thought of his choices and did not care what people thought of him in general. Although we worked in the same department, we rarely spoke. If he needed something, he would come to me, but other than that he kept his distance. One night, at a company gathering at a bowling alley, I decided to get to know him a little better. I cheered him on as he knocked down pins, and I sat next to him and bragged about my own bowling skills, which seemed to increase with each beer I drank. We had great fun together that night, and it wasn't long after that he asked me out on a date.

He let me choose the place. It was intimate and dark; a place I had been before with co-workers, but not on a date. I was happy that he enjoyed it. The mood was a little tense though; I put on my mask and used it to make the situation more comfortable. I smiled, I flirted, I laughed; I strategically placed careful caresses on his arms and legs like little bombs I would detonate later. I was glad to feel so in control and so successful with my manipulations when I saw him returning my smiles and sharing in my laughter. When we exited the restaurant, we walked around to the side of it, and he pulled me by the back of my neck towards him and kissed me deeply with such force I had never experienced before. I was surprised; he was so mild mannered during dinner, never laid a hand on me the whole night, and then, on the street, in the mist of literally hundreds of people walking by, he attacked me with a kiss. On top of that, something inside me made me think that he did it because he knew it would make me uncomfortable. I never liked PDAs (public displays of affection), I preferred to keep my brand of sexuality private.

The first night I was to go over to his house, I spent a great deal of time making a quiche. I sautéed the vegetables and fried the bacon, and experimented with a seasoning pack. When I arrived, bottle of wine and dinner in hand, he led me in and let me heat up the food I had just made. Just before I served the quiche to him, I tasted it and I looked at him, "I am not eating this crap, feel free to eat it if you want to, but I am not eating this." He looked at me and laughed and asked for a taste. It was way too salty - I picked it up, and threw the whole thing in the trash. It was the most beautiful looking quiche I ever made.

We ordered pizza and sat in front of his small television watching - if I remember correctly - Fight Club. Normally, I wouldn't even bother to mention the title of the movie, but it's just so darn appropriate. During the movie, he began kissing me very forcefully again. Then he explained to me what he expected; I was to belong to him. I was to be his slave and he, my master. He told me that whenever he wanted to, he would hit me. If he wanted to beat me, I must allow it. He told me that when I was with him, I was his, for him to do whatever he chose. I was fine with all of this; I was looking for a new way to hurt.

He sent me home in a cab and gave me money to get my nails done before we saw each other next, he liked the way I kept myself up and wanted to pay for all the things I did to make myself look beautiful for him. At work, he began talking to me more but he didn't want to much attention drawn to us, so he still kept limits. Occasionally though, he would drag me into an empty office and press his full body against mine, planting kisses on my mouth.

The next time I went to his house, as soon as I came in, he led me to the couch, grabbed a fistful of hair, and led my mouth down to his erection. While I busied myself with it, he continued to tug at my hair - very, very hard. The whole while, I was thinking, "This is what I deserve. This is what I get for being me. This is right." I just kept thinking that I NEEDED to be hurt physically. I NEEDED physical pain to drown out the emotional pain. I NEEDED physical scars to cover-up the emotional scars. I took as much as I could stand, and then I excused myself to the bathroom, "I have to go pee." I stood up and walked into his bedroom to the bathroom and locked myself in. I wanted to prepare my hair for another round of abuse, through all of this, I still wanted to be pretty. After a few minutes, he came, banging on the door and demanded that I come out. He sat me down on the couch and explained to me that I could not take control like that again. He said that we weren't 'playing' at being sadomasochistic, that this was truly a sadomasochistic relationship, and I could not just slip in and out of character when I wanted to. I was his slave, and when I became his slave, I gave up all of my rights. He then told me to give him a massage. He took off his shirt, sat on a chair, and let my hands knead his back muscles. The whole while, I was thinking, "I need to be better at this." that thought - I need to be better - had driven me to the deepest darkest corners of my mind in search of some type of perfection that would lead to an unconditional love I never felt.

Afterwards, we talked, he wanted to know so much about me. Almost everything - like he wanted to take what made me tick and use it against me - it would be a complete picture of degradation, physical and mental. I opened up completely, much like I’m doing with you, now. He talked like we were brother and sister. I shared my past traumas, present mistakes, and future wishes. When we were done, we went to bed and I allowed him to violate me.

In the morning, we sat down and spoke some more. We listened to public radio; we had intellectual discussion as I watched him roll and smoke cigarettes. The conversation was seamless, and we spent many hours voicing our opinions on many different subjects. Finally, he looked at me and said, "You're too nice. I can't do this to you. You're such a good person." I felt rejected. I begged him for another chance. I would be a better slave, I would do whatever he wanted, except, I didn't want him to give up on me. I knew - I NEED TO BE BETTER - and I knew that I could be, given enough time.

He agreed to give me another chance. At work, he was happy to mention my name when I wasn't nearby, around other men, and watch their faces turn red - he was happy to know that they wanted me, and he had me. He would tell me these things after work, he would tell me how he made married partners squirm when he mentioned my name, and how they stuttered when they said I was a nice person. We laughed at them together, and we would go back to his place, and we would do things that would make my blood boil in a rush of self-mutilation. He would always give me money afterwards, it was another way to enforce that I was only worth as much as what he paid and not a dime more, and I was okay with that.

One day, as I was coming from work, he called me. He told me that he couldn't do it anymore. I was too strong-willed, and I was too nice. He broke up with me and I cried in the street like a lost puppy. Stumbling in my heels, blinded by tears and grief. thinking once again, I AM NOT GOOD ENOUGH - another thought which consumed me and drove me to desperation. I AM NOT GOOD ENOUGH, but apparently, I was too good to be beaten.

Tomorrow, Normal Mistress. . .